


Mistakes were made

by Lila_theRedQueen (Phynoma)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Codependency, Dark, Elves, Explicit Sexual Content, Fire, Graphic Description, Humiliation, M/M, Needles, Non-Consensual Violence, Pain, Painful Sex, Painplay, Public Humiliation, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Villains, angbang, bad relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phynoma/pseuds/Lila_theRedQueen
Summary: Sauron is punished for his failure, post-Luthien and Beren escaping with the Silmaril. Based off of Phobs' beautiful artwork (https://www.deviantart.com/phobs/art/Tolkien-s-Silmarillion-The-stolen-silmaril-331210266) but much, much darker and very twisted. Proceed with caution.I hesitate even putting this up here, but some of y'all are as disturbed as I am. I love soft & fluffy depictions of Mairon/Melkor, but look: they're the villains. They're not nice. At best, I see their relationship as being codependent & abusive, so that's what's here. Very graphic, very non-con.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Kudos: 30





	Mistakes were made

Sauron leapt to his feet at Morgoth’s entrance, one hand still pressed to his neck.

“My Lord,” he began, but then Morgoth was across the room, mailed claws wrapped around his Lieutenant’s throat, holding him just high enough up the wall that Sauron fought to keep his footing. 

“It was a mistake!” he spluttered, pulling at the vala’s vice-like grip, desperation in his flaming eyes and pale face. “My Lord, it wasn’t my fault!”

“A mistake,” Morgoth repeated quietly. His face was iron, cold and unfathomable in his rage. “A _mistake_ , my dear Mairon?”

The fear in Sauron’s face turned to terror, real terror. One does not become the Lieutenant of the Dark King without knowing exactly what a mistake costs. He himself had dealt out the reward for such things many a time. The pleading of his underlings hadn’t helped them, either. 

A cruel smile spread across Morgoth’s face and his grip tightened. Blood squeezed over his iron-and-leather-shod hand. Sauron wheezed, automatically clawing at at Morgoth’s fingers again, not really expecting to pull free. 

“Beg,” the ainur whispered. Sauron’s eyes widened. He went even paler, blue tinging his cheeks. Morgoth’s smile turned into a snarl and he gave the maia a shake that slammed his head back against the wall. “Beg for your life, you miserable waste of creation.”

Sauron’s feet weren’t touching the floor anymore. He choked at Morgoth’s grip, too terrified to be humiliated. 

“Please,” he rasped. “Please, Melkor.”

The Dark Lord’s hand tightened again for just a moment and then he dropped the maia. Sauron crumpled into a heap of blood and mud-stained robes, wheezing . 

“Get up,” Morgoth ordered, more incensed than before. Sauron didn’t move right away, dizzy and disoriented, pressing his hand back to the reopened wound on his neck and staring at it in disbelief. “Get up!” The maia cringed away from Morgoth’s boot and pulled himself hastily to his feet, fingers digging into the stone wall for support. He huddled away from his master, upturned face streaked with tears. 

“My Lord, please,” he begged again. “Please, mercy. I’ll fix this. You need me, you need me to fix this. My Lord, do not forget my service to you.”

He would have collapsed to the ground at the vala’s feet had Morgoth not caught a hold of his chin, holding him up as easily as a wolf holds its pup by the neck. 

“I do not forget,” he said quietly. Sauron whimpered at the threat laced through the words, but didn’t try to move away. “But this is not a _mistake_ I can lightly overcome. You have lost the stronghold of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. You allowed an _elfling_ and a _Man_ to invade my private sanctum and pluck a silmaril from my very crown. Do you deny that you should be punished?”

Sauron’s tongue, dark and dry, flicked over his lips. “No, my Lord.” 

Morgoth surveyed him for a long moment in silence. “Good,” he said at last. “Remove your clothes and meet me in the Main Court.” He released him again and swept away without another backwards look. Sauron remained standing, swaying slightly, until Morgoth had left the hall; and then he fell heavily to his knees. He shook with the closeness he had come to disembodiment, and of the threat of what was to come. He was no stranger to pain, but he preferred to be the one causing it. 

Not only that, but now that the immediate terror had past, humiliation was returning. Whatever Morgoth was planning, it would be unpleasant, and it would be in front of the whole Court. How many had they tortured there together, to the delight of the orcs and the swayed men? How many had he broken, and laughed as he had presented them before the throne of his Lord? He would not be able to deny Morgoth or question his judgment in front of the Court, not if he wanted to keep what was left of his being intact. 

A brief, nonsensical impulse entered him to run, to escape; but no, he had already returned to Morgoth, had he not? He had known—or should have known—at what cost his return would be. There was no sense in fleeing. Whatever it was Morgoth had planned for him, he would endure, and be restored to his Lord’s favor. There was no better alternative. 

Even still, his hands shook as he undid the clasps of his robes, the gold chains that served as laces in his tunic. He had already removed his armor at his return; it had basically fallen from him after being ravaged by the great hound’s teeth. His clothes were torn and ruined but they were at least a psychic shield, a comfort despite their ineffective protection. The scarlet linen puddled around his feet, the dregs of his nobility. His fingers, so deft in metalworks, fumbled over the straps and laces of his boots. It had been millennia since he had dressed or undressed himself. Another tiny humiliation. 

When he was clad only in bruises and dried blood he made his way to the Court. The eyes of the elvish servants were downcast and fearful, but the orcs were too stupid to contemplate self-preservation when so delectable an opportunity for cruelty was placed before them. They spat at his feet and hooted to each other. There was malevolence in their twisted faces and ruthless satisfaction in their eyes, if only because they loved the dishonor of others and that of the mighty most of all. For all they knew, it was simply the maia’s turn to face their Master’s sadistic whims—to which they were so often subjected with so little cause. Their contempt was mindless, and though he burned with anger as hot as forge fire, he could not despise them for their natures. 

But he still had been mortified before his Lord, and was furious and fearful of what was to come, and that swirling of hot emotions needed an outlet. If the elves suspected anything of his dishonor they were too wise even in their dejected state to let curiosity show; even so, Sauron felt bitterness flowing through him towards them. He hated them for their blank, silent glances, for their servile bows that acted as if nothing were amiss. He was certain they were laughing silently at him, at his downfall. He gritted his teeth, feeling the crunch of blood and dirt in his mouth. When this was over, the elves would pay thrice for their mockery—he would make sure of it personally. 

By the time Sauron reached the antechamber to the Court, he was fuming. Two slaves clad in the thinest of cloths, their faces sunken and purple with exhaustion, opened the doors for him. He resisted the urge to take the nearest one and snap its throat between his fingers, between his teeth. That they were clothed more than him, even as feebly as they were, was additional insult to his state of mortification. He made to stalk by them and was halted by an orc in full mail. 

“Wait, my Lord,” he grunted, holding up a slimy grey hand. His voice was like the grind of a blade on a whetstone, threatening a whistling shriek at any time. “We must unbind your hair. The Dark Lord requests it.” 

He ran eager eyes over the maia’s flesh, no doubt contemplating the tortures it would endure. Sauron flushed and stepped back, away from the orc’s grasping hands. 

“I’ll do it myself,” he snapped, reaching up to pull down the braids that kept his hair from his face in battle. They were already partly undone from his struggle with Huan, long strands floating around him like wisps of firelight. The orc stepped closer and pulled the braid away, thick fingers pulling it out clumsily and without regard to how many strands were yanked from the maia’s head. 

“Master said for us to do it,” the orc insisted, but the next second the maia’s hand was burning an inch away from his face. 

“Touch me again,” Sauron said in a deadly whisper, “and I will melt your eyes in your head.”

The orc blinked at him, hand still raised. “Master said—”

One clawed fingernail came within a milimeter of the orc’s bulbous eye. “I won’t say it again.” 

The orc considered this a long moment, perturbed only by the conflict in orders. Then he shrugged and stepped back, deciding that his eyeball was best in the state it currently was. Sauron undid the rest of his hair with a few violent but practiced movements. 

“There,” he snarled once his hair was a red-gold mane around his shoulders. “Can I go in, now?” 

The orc nodded with a grunt, backing up slightly. He was a Captain, Sauron noted, gaze running quickly over the notches on the orc’s breastplate as he passed. Clearly, he had survived this long by a better instinct than most for life-or-death situations. A good trait. He could forgive the orc’s presumption this time. 

The Court was filled with the grating voices and cackles of orc-kind, accompanied by some of the more corruptible of men and the flimsily-clad elven slaves. The only light was that of the fire in the antechamber at Sauron’s back and the one behind Morgoth’s throne. The clamor died as Sauron strode into the room, head held high despite his nakedness, eyes flashing with a heat that neither fire could match. The servants of the Dark Lord parted ways before him, and there was fear in their eyes. He wondered how long that would last. 

“Mairon,” Morgoth’s voice slithered over the black marble like a freezing draft under a door. “Good of you to join us.” 

He rose and stepped down the dais from his throne, a mountain of creaking leather and frost-bitten iron. The doors to the antechamber swung shut. He met his Lieutenant at the base of the dais, where the firelight flickered over a massive steel anvil. It was unnecessarily large, almost eleven feet long, and couldn’t have weighed less than five tons. Its surface was dull and blackened. The monstrosity was used indeed, but not in the forging metals. Sauron swallowed and lifted his head to meet Morgoth’s gaze. 

“What brings you to my Court, maia of Valinor?” Morgoth asked. An insult. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees, and Sauron suppressed a shiver. The _my_ had been subtly emphasized for his benefit, and he had not missed it.

“I have come to make amends, my Lord,” he replied. Morgoth’s face was unyielding under his iron crown, the two remaining silmirils burning with a white light that made Sauron’s skin crawl. 

“What have you done for which you must make amends?”

Sauron repressed a scowl. Morgoth was going to make him do this in front of the Court, then? He waited to speak until he was sure the hatred wouldn’t show through his voice. 

“I have relinquished my Lord’s possession of the tower at Tol-in-Gaurhoth,” he said. 

“And?”

The maia took a deep breath. “And I have allowed the after-children of Illúvatar to access your great Citadel, my Lord.” 

Morgoth leaned forward with a swirl of icy chill and a growing shadow that made the flames at the back of the room flicker and shrink. “ _And?_ ”

Sauron stared up at him, grasping for what more Morgoth could want of him. “And I have lost for you one of the Great Silmarils? My Lord?” he added hastily. 

Morgoth’s hand descended on him like a cold hammer on hot steel. “You have failed me, Mairon,” he said, still quietly, but in his voice was the shriek of tortured wind around icy peaks. “You have allowed weakness into Angband. And weakness—” he grasped Sauron in the hollow of shoulder and neck, lifted him easily to hold him over the anvil; “—must be hammered out.” 

His iron-clawed hands uncurled from Sauron’s shoulder and the maia fell hard onto metal. He barely caught himself, balanced precariously on the horn until he slid himself back, fearful again. 

“My Lord?” he asked warily. 

“Will you submit to me, Mairon?” Morgoth asked, leaning over him. Four orcs thundered forward at some silent signal, each grasping one of the maia’s limbs and pulling it back, taut to the metal.

Sauron forced himself not to struggle against their touch, to keep his gaze on his master. 

“Yes, my Lord,” he whispered. His eyes watered. A bead of sweat ran down his face and sizzled into steam before it could reach the anvil. 

His arms were forced back and tied, his legs the same, straddling the curve of the horn. He was on his back, helpless. He probably could have broken the ropes, had he tried, but had Morgoth really wanted to immobilize him he would have used chains. This was another test. He groaned as he realized it, saw the temptation laid out before him once again, to break free and flee. 

Morgoth smiled, genuine pleasure twisting his face. He laid one hand on Sauron’s throat, pressed until there was another gush of blood over his glove. The maia’s eyes went blank with fear. He automatically tried to stop the flow with magic, but his power hit up against an iron wall. He was already feeling dizzy. 

“My Lord!” he gasped, prevented by the ropes from reaching up to stop him. “Please!”

“You will learn your lesson,” Morgoth said, and this time his voice was muted for only the two of them to hear. 

“Please,” Sauron wheezed again, choking on blood and the hand pressing into his windpipe. Darkness blinked around his eyes. He needed to explain. Why would Morgoth kill him now, after he had so narrowly escaped death at the maw of Huan? Wasn’t he worth more embodied? But the words wouldn’t come, and he couldn’t draw enough breath to cough out the blood draining into his lungs. He was drowning, suffocating. Surely Morgoth did not realize how far he was pushing him. He struggled again, and the Dark Lord chuckled. 

Fear overcame reason, and Sauron sent out a burst of power, burning through the ropes that held him down. An acrid smell of hemp and tar rose around him, but his bonds remained solid. No, he had been a fool. Of course Morgoth had not given him a test of freedom; only the illusion of a test. The ropes burned, but they held. The last thing he saw before darkness took him was laughter on Morgoth’s face. 

He awoke in agony. Before his mind could comprehend his danger, his body was reacting—hard, fast whimpers, the panting desperation of an injured wolf. His throat felt thick and dry. There was metal on his tongue. He was cold, so cold. His shoulders were sore, the insides of his legs chafed. 

All this was nothing to the sharp pain in his right hand and arm. 

“My Lieutenant; the right hand of Melkor,” Morgoth murmured in his ear. “It is fitting, then, do you not agree? The weakness must be found and reforged.” 

Sauron bit his lips, felt them crack and bleed. His mouth was cottony, and his head ached. Morgoth’s smile floated over his face, then rose out of view. 

“Go ahead. Take a look.”

After another minute of panting and fighting off unconsciousness, Sauron forced himself to turn his head. His arm was stretched out beside him, palm up, supported only in brief moments by the orcs attending to it. As he watched, a slavering goblin picked up a long, thin needle from a plate set beside the anvil and stabbed it into his arm. The stab itself was quick, but then the goblin twisted the thin metal through his flesh deeper and deeper: an inch, two inches, until the tip of the metal bulged out the skin on the other side of his arm. Sauron realized in the same moment that his arm and hand was bristling with needles, and that he was screaming.

A long, claw-fingered hand cupped his face and he turned pain-blinded eyes up to his Master. 

“Lord Melkor, please,” he pleaded breathlessly. “Please! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“I know you are, little one,” Morgoth replied, stroking his chest. “I know.”

Sauron screamed again, toes curling. His legs rubbed against the metal as he arched, his legs stung as raw flesh caught on smooth steel. 

“Master,” he sobbed. “Master, please…you need me…you need my hands…”

“Oh, the orcs will do nothing you can’t heal later,” Morgoth informed him. “Though it may be painful to wield your hammer for a while. A reminder, nothing more.”

He felt something hot and wet drip over his arm and turned his head again, only to see a line of drool dripping from the goblin’s mouth over his wrist. There was a pungent smell in the air; the rotting-meat smell of orc breath mixed with shit and blood and rust, plus an acrid tang like old seafood that he didn’t quite recognize but had a bad suspicion about. Disgust roiled through him and he closed his eyes, breathing hard through his teeth. 

“I would have just done this myself; but your failure affected more than just me, you know,” Morgoth continued conversationally. “They are _your_ troops, after all. You’ve done a good job with them; bloodthirsty, cruel beyond reckoning… _excited_ by violence.” He stroked Sauron’s hair from his sweat-soaked forehead, grinning as the maia moaned. “You noticed that, did you not? Do not worry, my Lieutenant; I have already told them that your flesh is mine alone. They will not touch you unless I want them to.”

Sauron grunted with frustration and pain and tried to jerk away from the orcs. It was useless. His right arm was not bound, but it was limp and would not respond to him. A side effect of the needles, or magic…either way, there was nothing he could do. He watched as an orc bent his wrist back and then slid a needle up the length of his palm so that it left a ridge under his skin. New sweat burst out all over him. 

“They only have a few left,” Morgoth noted with surprise. “Quite efficient. Though…” he leaned on the anvil, chin cupped thoughtfully in his hand, “you _were_ passed out for a good part of it. What do you think, children—does that ruin the lesson? Perhaps we’ll have to start all over again.” 

There were grunts and exclamations of agreement from the orcs. Two more had started drooling, thick and opaque as it dripped down their jowls and their breastplates. Sauron tipped his head back, trying not to pass out again. His breath squeaked. He had heard similar death rattles from Men with his fangs in their throats. 

“Nooo,” Morgoth decided, still stroking his Lieutenant’s hair. “I grow too impatient for such an exercise. This will have to do. Is that all of them? Good. Then you know what to do.”

A burly orc stepped forward. He unscrewed a metal jaw filled with foul-looking ointment, yellowish, that smelled of salt and ice. Sauron jumped as the orc spattered a handful of the stuff over his bare chest. The creature’s thick, leather gloves scratched over his skin. The reason for the gloves was soon clear as the ointment sank in and began to freeze, growing colder and colder until it burned. For the first time, Sauron was distracted from his arm. 

“No, Master, no!” he shrieked, fighting against the ropes that still held him bound. His arm bounced as he flailed, sending stabbing pains up into his chest and neck, but cold was far more terrifying than any agony. 

Morgoth’s mouth twitched, and then he threw his head back and laughed. Sauron began cursing in earnest as the cold spread along his body. The orc was still going, damn him! The ointment was worked into his neck, down his sides, down his stomach. Maybe losing his physical form wouldn’t have been so bad, compared to this. Sauron twisted as the orc’s hands went even lower. Sauron’s eyes shone like lamps from his pale face. He bared his teeth, showing fangs. 

“No! No more!” 

“Go on,” Morgoth reversed the command smoothly. He let his fingers drift over Sauron’s chest and the maia’s eyes rolled back, cutting off their light abruptly. The Dark Lord’s touch on his cooled skin was like being stabbed with spears of pure ice. “The rest of you…I think I’ve found the fault in this instrument of mine. Remove these needles for me, will you? And do it slowly.” He brushed his fingers over the forest of needles poking out of Sauron’s arm, some of them penetrating almost entirely through, some only a few centimeters deep. 

The maia moaned, then wailed as Morgoth leaned over him and plucked the first needle from his flesh. A single drop of blood beaded up from the wound and then slowly oozed down his arm. Sauron was shivering uncontrollably, burning with cold all over except for his arm, which felt swollen and hot in the most unpleasant way. 

“Master, master, please,” he whimpered, trying to reach Morgoth. “My Lord, you know I serve you. I am faithful. I serve only you. Please, release me from this. I’ll do anything—”

“Quiet,” Morgoth said sharply, and Sauron stopped talking, though he continued to whimper. “You’ll do anything? _This_ is what you are doing for me. And I won’t enjoy it if you’re making such a fuss. You have forgotten, my unfortunate Lieutenant, that your proximity to me brings not only power but risk. I know _exactly_ how to hurt you. And you _will_ hurt for me—until I desire it otherwise. If you would like to scream, then go ahead. But none of this ridiculous supplication, dear little Mairon.” He pressed a kiss to his maia’s forehead. “If I believed you to be unfaithful, then you would be dead,” he added softly. 

It took a long time to remove the needles. They had been placed more strategically than Sauron had thought; not one touched the other despite their seeming haphazardness. By the time the orcs reached his fingers, he was grateful he had been unconscious for the beginning of his torture. Using a tongs and gripping the maia’s palm uncomfortably hard, the head goblin slowly pulled out a needle wedged below his fingernail. Since Morgoth’s permission to scream, Sauron had avoided it on principle; now, he was unable to hold back. 

He heard the clatter of metal on metal, and then the tongs latched onto a spot of searing pain in his next finger. When he howled this time, the baying of wolves echoed back through the wild winds and cold iron of the fortress. Sauron did not notice. He was a creature of great endurance but he was already injured; he was reaching the outer edge of his limits. With the next needle, something hot and wild and desperate squeezed his chest, and as he strained against his bonds laughter bubbled out of him like molten rock from the fissures surrounding the Citadel. The orcs, as much as orcs ever did, looked nervous. Morgoth only smiled, razor-sharp and dangerous, and pushed his hand back over Sauron’s scalp until his fingers caught in his hair. 

“Keep going,” he ordered. 

Sauron jerked as a fourth and fifth needle left his ring finger, and then collapsed into more maniacal giggles. Blood foamed at the corners of his mouth. He barely reacted to the sixth as it left his thumb, and then the goblin simply sliced his hand open to remove the one in his palm. The burly, gloved orc smeared ointment over his arm and hand, the only part of him not yet doused in the foul liquid. Sauron’s screams this time were interlaced with laughter, torn ragged and bloody from his throat. When he lolled back against the anvil, Morgoth stood to his full height.

“Leave us,” he said. His voice filled the great room. 

There was a moment of silence, and then a great clatter of armor and growls as the attendant orcs and men fled the Court, the elven slaves filing out after them. Those employed for the Lieutenant’s punishment received a nod of recognition and a small pouch that clinked cheerfully before they, too, were dismissed. Then Morgoth and Sauron were alone in the chill space, the roar of the fire and the wet breathing of the maia the only sounds. The ropes fell away without a word or gesture, and Sauron slumped over the metal. 

Morgoth walked around him, considering, his footsteps slow and even. His Lieutenant watched him from beneath mostly-closed lids. The Dark Lord paused by the horn of the anvil and removed his gloves with his teeth. He ran his nails up the raw flesh of Sauron’s inner thigh and the maia hissed and tensed but made no effort to move away.

“Whom do you serve?” Morgoth asked, his voice intimate once again but still undeniably cruel.

Sauron’s throat worked for a moment. A fresh stream of blood trickled from the bite on his neck, dripping from his chest to the frost-covered anvil. 

“I serve you, my Lord,” he rasped at last. “I serve Melkor, greatest of the Ainur.” 

Morgoth seemed to grow larger in the empty space, until he towered over the maia. He gripped Sauron’s leg in one hand, slid the other hand around the back of his neck. Sauron gasped in renewed agony as frost crackled over his skin, and then barked out another wheezing laugh. His eyes were dark golden with pain. 

The Dark Lord lifted his Lieutenant without effort and strode with him to the back of the hall, crossing behind his throne. Firelight danced over his greyed skin, the pale form of the maia in his arms.

Sauron roused slightly as the heat of the flames broke through his chill. 

“Oh, thank you, my Lord,” he choked out, lifting his head. “Thank you, thank you…”

“Quiet,” Morgoth said again, but not quite as harsh as he had been before. “This isn’t a gift. You should know better than anyone that cold metal cannot be shaped. This is but a necessary step in your mending.”

“Yes, Melkor,” Sauron breathed, clutching weakly at him. “Of course. I understand.”

Morgoth smirked at the maia’s desperation, the glitter of hope and need in his eyes. Then he dropped him unceremoniously into the flames. Sauron grunted as he landed, and then collapsed back in ecstasy as heat flooded his limbs. The ointment bubbled and cracked. He didn’t dare rub it off, even though it was keeping the flames from his skin when he wanted nothing more than to wallow in them. Some of the deadly chill in his bones lessened.

Too soon, Morgoth plucked him from his flaming bower and carried him, smoking, back to the anvil. He was suddenly exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open even as Morgoth’s huge frame stepped over the horn so that he was straddling it, looming overhead. 

“You will not fail me again.” 

Sauron focused on the vala with some difficulty. His mouth stretched wide in the twisted mockery of a smile. 

“My Lord,” he said, and then coughed up a mouthful of blood. Morgoth’s hand came down onto his chest with the force of an avalanche, the sound of the blow echoing through the empty hall. The wound on Sauron’s neck pulled, the freshly healed skin tearing easily. The heat of his own blood bloomed again over his throat. “I will not fail you!” he cried out, pupils slitted with pain and fear. 

“Better,” Morgoth sneered. “Beg for my mercy now, cast-off of Valinor.”  
Sauron sucked air through his teeth. “Please,” he said. Morgoth’s hand pressed harder against his chest, cold blossoming from it. The maia writhed. “Please, my Lord,” he said again, with a little more feeling. Morgoth’s hand slammed into his chest again. It felt as if ice stabbed out from his hands to skewer him, but when Sauron clutched his left hand to his chest there was nothing there. 

“Mercy!” he screamed. 

“Say, ‘again,’ Mairon.” 

“Again,” he obeyed, wheezing. Morgoth struck him again. Sauron wailed. A trickle of blood ran from one eye like a teardrop. 

“Say, ‘harder,’ Mairon.”

“Harder,” he sobbed, flinching away. Morgoth laughed. His blow was as sure and powerful as a hammer on steel. There was a quiet but definite _crack_. Sauron gagged, spat up phlegm and blood in a viscous mass. Morgoth removed his hand quickly but not fast enough to avoid the splatter, and disgust rippled across his features. 

Morgoth wiped his hand on his robes, then reached out to grasp Sauron’s right arm. His fingers met easily around it. He twisted it up against Sauron’s chest, causing the maia’s knees to draw up automatically like a clockwork doll. The Dark Lord stepped forward into the space and parted his robe with his free hand. The baring of his body was a threat, not an invitation. The caricature of a first-born, Morgoth’s form was cruel and hard, the shaft of his chosen sex no more than an instrument of domination, not of love. 

“More, Mairon?” he asked as he pressed his body to the maia. His intentions were unmistakable. Sauron’s eyes stared straight overhead, his pupils dilating rapidly. 

“My Lord,” he whispered brokenly. His face twisted, enough pride left for humiliation, for hatred. It took a few coughing, rasping breaths before he could force out, “more, Master.”  
Morgoth’s free hand grasped both of his Lieutenant’s ankles at once, catching them up as the maia kicked feebly. He pushed them up, crushing them into the arm already pinned to his chest. Sauron’s breaths came in strangled gasps. He shivered, but made no other reaction as his Lord cupped a handful of blood from his neck and chest and used to lubricate his entrance. Without any more preparation, the vala pushed all the way into him in one stroke. After the torment he had endured thus far, Morgoth’s invasion was just another insult to the maia’s physical body, and not one of the more painful ones. There were greater threats. Sauron grasped in vain at his chest.

“I cannot breathe, my Lord,” he gasped. 

“Say, ‘harder,’ Mairon.”

“Harder.” 

More _cracks_ , like the snapping of pine in a campfire, as Morgoth pressed his weight down on the maia’s chest. A trickle of blood ran from Sauron’s mouth. 

“Say, ‘thank you, Melkor.’”

“Thank…thank you…Mm…” He was fading. No. He couldn’t fail now. “Melkor,” he forced out with the last of his air. Then, the pressure was suddenly gone, and he realized that beyond the simple weight of Morgoth’s body it had been cold, so cold it had been a physical ache in his lungs and his bones. There was a jumble of movement, and then he was cast back into the fire. It burned like fire had never burned him before.

It took him several minutes, his body healing rapidly in the warmth, to realize that the burning pain was from his wounds and not the flames. He sucked in breath and laughed, hysterical and exultant in his agony. He brushed at his face and dried ointment flicked off and burned. Morgoth plucked him from the flames again, too soon. Sauron drowsed in the short journey between flames and anvil, giggling occasionally, too exhausted to resist. 

“Already more malleable,” Morgoth murmured as he laid his maia down again and reentered him. Sauron shivered at the cold touch of the metal, almost worse than the pain of Morgoth’s entrance. He clung weakly to the vala’s arms until Morgoth pulled away. 

“Say ‘again,’ Mairon.”

“Again, Melkor.”

The word had left his mouth before he could comprehend what it meant. He heard himself howl. This was going to leave permanent damage; fractured bones and broken blood vessels healed only a little before they were torn asunder again. It would leave him weaker than before, dependent. He would have to be more careful in choosing his battles. Is that what Melkor wanted?

“‘More,’ Mairon.”

No, no more. He didn’t want it, didn’t want to be implicit in his own torture, the slow destruction of his body. The pain of this was far more than the teeth of Huan in his neck. No.

“More, my Lord,” he said. 

The sneer on Morgoth’s face said that he could see Sauron’s resistance. His loathing, his humiliation, his anger, and most of all his fear: it delighted the vala, excited him. Fear alone out of all other emotions was what kept the maia repeating the phrases his Master ordered, as pain brought him past reason and the bonds of fealty. His mind was a whirl of hatred and violence and terror, all caught neatly within the pattern of submission. He screamed his refusals and then, when Morgoth ordered it, obeyed him. 

The Dark Lord took him hard and without concern for his injuries, using him for a few minutes before dropping him back in the fire to begin to heal and recover, only to start the whole process over again. The wound at Sauron’s neck was becoming a long and jagged scar, closed and reopened time after time. His right arm remained numb even in the hottest of the flames. His hysteria and dissociation grew, until he no longer had any concept of control over his own body or the words that left his mouth. Everything was flames and ice and fire and blood. 

At long last, he became aware again of the cold metal under his back, the hard thrusts of Morgoth penetrating him. He had been going for quite some time this round, without pausing to crack ribs or tear skin. Sauron’s fingers curled reflexively as this simpler discomfort grew slowly towards pain. He lolled with Morgoth’s motion. The glow of the maia’s eyes was faded, his skin dulled like old parchment. He was little more than a doll, incapable of resistance. Even loathing was depressed under a thick blanket of cold and constant pain. When Morgoth pulled out of him, Sauron shuddered and then lay in silence. He stared, sightless, over his mangled right arm and the freezing dark beyond. He did not wonder or even care what would happen next. 

Morgoth’s footsteps echoed as he walked around the anvil. The brush of his robes over the maia’s chilled skin was nothing. He did not look up, even as Morgoth’s shaft drew level with his face. If Morgoth said anything, ordered anything, he did not hear. He didn’t react as Morgoth’s huge hand grabbed him by the back of his head. When the Dark Lord shoved his unclean rod into Sauron’s mouth, the maia drew back his teeth automatically but remained otherwise as dull and lifeless as before. It was as much sex as Morgoth’s earlier penetration had been, that is to say, not at all; it was simply a claiming of his flesh in every possible way. 

When Sauron gagged, as he could not help but do, Morgoth only adjusted slightly, finding a more advantageous angle before thrusting down his throat, his hand still wrapped in the subdued fire of Sauron’s hair. He kept going until his Lieutenant’s body eased around him and he could move without resistance. When Sauron’s choking wheezes became desperate, he pulled back and let the maia breathe. 

Sauron roused a little, enough to lift his head just a little and regain some light in his eyes. Morgoth smiled, brushing his thumb over the maia’s cheekbone. 

“My Lord?” Sauron’s lips moved silently. Morgoth yanked his hair back and reentered his mouth, ignoring Sauron’s twitching as he pushed all the way into his throat once more. The maia groaned, reflexive and unthinking. If Morgoth noticed the way his body jerked, his whimpers of cut-off air, he did not acknowledge them. His thrusts grew deeper and more violent, and he grunted with effort and pleasure. When he came with a short, exultant bark, he used both hands to keep Sauron’s face pressed to his body, his shaft completely enveloped by the maia’s throat. 

Sauron took it at first, but then a misplaced attempt for breath started him choking in earnest. He began to writhe, not quite struggling but unable to stop his body from seeking escape, seeking air. Morgoth held him in place for a few moments longer than necessary, long enough for his shaft to start wilting in the maia’s mouth, before letting him go at last. Sauron’s cheek cracked hard against the anvil. He struggled not to vomit, knowing in some, distant part of his mind that Morgoth would not approve, but nothing could stop a thick froth of snow-white cum and bright-red blood from spilling out of his mouth. It dripped down his chin and his neck, becoming progressively more pink as it went. It was cold, freezing cold, and it hurt as it settled into his stomach and his esophagus.   
Morgoth had already wiped himself clean and was striding away. 

“Clean yourself up and meet me in the war room with the new plans for the assault on Doriath,” he ordered coldly, and the door of the Court closed after him with a resounding boom.

Sauron waited for a minute before coughing up as much of the freezing cum as he could. He dragged himself to the edge of the anvil and then fell hard onto the ground with a half-realized roll and another crack of already weakened bones. He crawled like a worm to the back of the room and curled up in the fire. The flames leapt up around him with a sympathy he would receive nowhere else in this infernal land.

He couldn’t stay and rest long, no matter how much he desired it. His right arm ached, feeling returning so slowly that he feared it might never heal. But he did not have time to contemplate the horrors of the future, lest he bring them more quickly upon his head. The maia ensconced himself in the hottest of flames, closest to the vents that rose from the earth, and washed himself in them until ointment and blood had boiled away. The dark, black bruising on his chest faded, the skin of his throat and legs knit together and reformed. He grunted as bones crackled and popped as they mended, jerking his flesh back into place like a unskilled marionettist. 

When he could stand, he carefully made his way to the exit. The same orc captain was waiting with fresh clothes and jewels, which he allowed Sauron to weave back through his hair while he dressed him. When this was finished, the orc stepped back with a grunt and a bow, holding out a case of rings which he proceeded to slip onto the maia’s fingers. Sauron smiled as he flexed his hands, glittering once more with the fruits of his craftmanship. His right arm pained him more than he wanted to admit, and he was limping and sensitive, but he was reinstated in his Lord’s favor. He had no doubt that Morgoth was not finished with him, but anything else the vala intended to do would not be shared in front of the Court. It was almost enough to forget the utter humiliation he had endured; but not quite. Not quite. 


End file.
